


Thunderstruck

by MadcapRomantic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 12x09 Coda, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bottom!Cas, Feels, Fingering, Graphic Descriptions of Sex, Like all the feels, M/M, Oral Sex, a bunch of feels, bottom!Castiel, post-episode, top!dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-31
Updated: 2017-01-31
Packaged: 2018-09-21 01:34:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9525803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadcapRomantic/pseuds/MadcapRomantic
Summary: He means to tell Cas in the car.He does.But the words are hot and heavy on his tongue, and he can’t force them out of his mouth.So he looks at Cas as they ride in the back seat of the car.Dean looks at Castiel, the angel, his angel.One last time.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I still write Destiel. No, I'm not done with Sterek. Can't a girl sail more than one ship at once?
> 
> I'm unapologetic about this piece; it's pure feels and porn. Buckle up.
> 
> Takes place, like, right after 12X09.
> 
> If you'd like, check me out on tumblr as madcapromantic. Half my blog is Jensen's pretty face.

He means to tell Cas in the car.

He does.

But the words are hot and heavy on his tongue, and he can’t force them out of his mouth.

He means to tell Cas, he truly does, but his heart is heavy in the cage of his lungs, the beat not proof of life but the drumbeat as he walks to his death, a march for the damned.

Sammy’ll ask Billie to take him. Dean knows his brother, knows Sammy’s a self-sacrificing saint if ever there was one, will do anything to save everyone but himself, but Dean can’t do that to Sam, can’t do that to his mom.

She’ll grieve Dean’s death, there’s no way around that. Dean knows his mom loves him. But Dean got the chance to know that, know her, spent the first few years of his life getting PB&J’s with the crusts cut off, got tomato soup with rice and the lullaby of an old Beatles’ song. Sammy never knew that, any of that, and Mary barely even _knew_ Sam before ol’ yellow eyes got to her.

So, there’s not any choice in the matter; it _has_ to be Dean.

And maybe that’s why he doesn’t tell Cas. Maybe that’s why the words get stuck in his throat like barbed wire; there’s more to this ordeal that just him and Cas.

So he looks at Cas as they ride in the back seat of the car.

Dean looks at Castiel, the angel, _his angel._

_One last time._

And ain’t it just the damndest thing, when the tip of Cas’ angel blade comes bursting outta Billie’s chest?

Dean’s chest constricts, his heart beat echoes in his ears.

And then Cas speaks.

“...You mean too much to me.”

And Cas is lookin’ him square in the eye with he says it.

But there’s hesitation there, behind all that anger.

“To everything.”

And, _oh_ , Dean knows Cas is covering his ass, knows that look, that tone, because he’s used it a million times himself. It’s _deflection_.

Dean should say what he came to realize years ago.

He should, but he can’t.

And this time, he doesn’t know why.

There’s no bigger picture here.

Sure, doom and gloom is hovering on the horizon, inbound, but they are Winchesters; ‘incoming storm’ is all they know. Their lives don’t feel real when impending death and destruction aren’t around the corner.

They drive back to the bunker mostly in silence, Mary and Sam taking turns driving. Sam asks Dean if he wants a turn behind the wheel, but he fakes a yawn and shakes his head.

There, in the dark of the back seat of the car, he sees Cas’ hand lying between them, palm up. The angel’s attention is elsewhere. His eyes are out of focus, and while he’s looking out the window, he’s not seeing what passes in flashes and blurs as they cruise down the highway.

And, maybe because he’s finally brave enough to do it, or maybe because he’s so much of a coward that he can’t take it any more, Dean reaches his hand out and threads his fingers with Cas’.

What’s surprising is the way Cas reacts. Dean expects a head-turn, expects the narrowing of eyes in confusion. Hell, he even expects Cas to just outright ask Dean what he’s doing.

But Dean doesn’t get any of that. Instead, Cas’ hand tightens, squeezing hard for just a moment, then relaxes. Cas doesn’t smile, doesn’t frown. He just continues to stare out the window.

When they pull up to the bunker in the wee hours of the morning - the sun only just climbing the horizon and bleeding the sky with ruddy reds and oranges - Dean jolts awake. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep, and isn’t glad for all it did; he wakes with a headache and a dry mouth.

No one says much as they close the door to the bunker behind them. Mary hugs them both, makes them bend down just a bit so she can plant kisses on each of their cheeks. She even does so with Cas, who smiles in return. She waves them goodnight, even though it’s morning, as she walks toward her room. Dean knows she’s going there to to cry, so her sons don’t see, but Dean doesn’t follow. When Mary’s done crying, she’ll come find them. Everything won’t be better, not by a long shot - their mother was ready to shoot herself in the head to save them - but they’ll pretend nothing is wrong.

After all, pretending nothing is wrong is the Winchester way.

Dean shuffles his way to his room. Despite spending six weeks in solitary, all he wants is fifteen minutes alone with his shower. He missed water pressure. He’s sure he smells more than ripe, but at least no one had said anything in the car.

He washes his hair three times because he can. He clips his nails, cleans under them, gets behind his ears, too. He leaves his stubble, no too concerned about the overnight’s worth of growth on his face. He wraps himself up in his robe before venturing back into his bedroom.

Only part of him is surprised when he finds Cas sitting on his bed. His trenchcoat and suit coat are nowhere in sight, and Dean finds it almost strange to see Cas in only a white button-up and tie. He looks tired, haggard, _vulnerable_.

“Hey, Cas.”

Castiel sighs.

“Somethin’ you needed?”

Cas looks to his hands. “I just...”

Dean swallows, feeling cornered.

“I just wanted to make sure you’re really back.”

Dean sighs. He knows how Cas feels, he really does. After Purgatory-

No. That was a long time ago.

Dean shakes his head. He knew then, and he was too stupid to say anything about it, has _been_ stupid enough to keep hiding the truth.

And what good has it done him?

To say he’s not nervous is ridiculous; he’s fucking terrified. His hands are shaking, his breath is coming quick, his heartbeat a thunderous cacophony in his own ears. But it’s now or never, and hardly a few hours ago, it had nearly _been never._

There are no theatrics. No soul-searching looks or whispered confessions. Dean just shuts his eyes, grabs Cas by the lapels of his shirt, hauls him forward, and kisses him square on the mouth.

And for the second time since they’d been reunited, Cas surprises Dean. Instead of standing stock-still with shock, instead of letting out a soft sound of surprise, Cas melts against Dean, presses into the kiss, lets his hands settle on Dean’s waist as he kisses back for all he’s worth.

The best part?

Cas moves like he was _made for this._

Dean moves to pull back, to breathe, but Cas follows his lips, pulls Dean toward him until they topple to the bed together, hunter astride angel. Cas’ arms wind around him, pull him close, and when Dean moves his hands to frame Cas’ face, he feels wetness under the pads of his fingers.

He pulls back, shocked, opens his eyes. “Cas?”

Castiel's chest shudders, and he pries his hands from where they're fisted in Dean's robe. “I won't watch you die again,” he chokes out. “I won't _let_ you die again.”

Dean sighs, pressing his forehead to the juncture of Cas’ neck. He takes a deep breath, the warm, familiar scent that is Castiel calming his shot nerves. He smells like the forest before the storm, petrichor; the promise of things to come.

“Dean,” Cas shudders. He cups Dean’s face with his own hands, raises Dean’s head up until they are looking one another in the eye. “I won’t...”

“You won’t what, Cas?”

“I won’t let you go.”

At the angel’s words, the tension drains from Dean’s body. All of those pent-up emotions, the ones he’s given no outlet, come flooding through him, and instead of making his heart ache, instead of _destroying_ him, they set him free. He presses his lips to Cas’ again, knowing that Cas understands his actions and how they speak words he can’t piece together yet. And Cas, who knows him better than anyone has ever even come close, who takes this facade Dean wears and tears him down, brick by brick, atom by atom, kisses him again and again and again.

Dean maneuvers them further up the bed, makes it so he can lay half-atop Cas, slotting their legs together, pressing his tongue to the seam of soft, pliant lips. Cas opens his mouth for him, without a moment of hesitation, melts under him like snow in the sun. Straying fingers weave their way through dark locks, and Dean nearly falls apart over the mere thought of what’s happening, that this celestial being, this creature that’s lived for a million human life spans, and will live for a million more long after Dean’s bones turn to dust in the ground, _this angel_ needs Dean as much as Dean needs him.

And isn’t that a powerful thought?

It shakes Dean to the core.

The way Cas moves under him, the way his body responds, the sounds he makes - _fuck_ , why did Dean wait so long?

There’s too much cloth in the way of all of the skin he wants to press his lips to, so Dean makes quick work of divesting Cas of his tie, tugging the buttons one by one as he lays a kiss to each inch of skin that’s revealed. Somehow, Dean thought this would be different, different from what he’s used to, from what he knows. It is, and yet, not, all at the same time. The skin under his lips is still warm and smooth, rising and falling with the heaving of Castiel’s breathing. Dean runs his tongue along the divot of Castiel’s sternum, pleased he can practically taste the heartbeat there, under skin and bone. Cas’ heart is beating fast, just like his own, but it doesn’t give him pause, only serves to spur him on; he’s not the only one traversing uncharted territory.

When Cas is finally rid of his white button-down, Dean has made sure every inch of Cas’ skin has been thoroughly lavished. Dean’s left a few love bites, a few hickies, for Cas to find later. He smirks at his own handiwork, pleased with how debatched Cas looks underneath him, mouth slack, panting, pretty blue eyes blown out until hardly a sliver of sky remains.

Dean pops the button of Cas’ slacks free, pulls the zipper down. Cas groans, throws his head back on the bed, and Dean’s left with the beautiful view of Cas’ throat, arched and bared. He pushes Cas’ pants down, over the swell of his ass and down to his thighs and, _oh Christ,_ Cas goes commando.

Swallowing, Dean tries to gather his bearing. He’s certain he’s never been so turned on in his life, but his hesitation is mistaken as apprehension to Cas, who cranes his neck up, meets Dean’s gaze, calls Dean’s name.

To show him there’s no stopping him now, to prove that he was simply admiring the view, Dean pushes his face into the V of Cas’ pelvis and inhales, deeply. Here, Cas’ scent is stronger; he smells like the air before a lighting strike, the eye of a hurricane.

Dean licks a stripe up Cas’ cock, and Cas’ head falls back as the angel moans and gasps.

“ _Dean,_ ” he shudders, one hand moving to fist in Dean’s hair, but not to direct, merely to ground himself.

Below him, Dean groans. Cas feels heavy on his tongue, earthy and _right_ , and it’s taking all of Dean’s focus not to swallow the rest of the way down, take Cas deep into his throat. He knows his gag reflex well enough, knows he can’t quite manage, but the thought still sends shivers down his spine.

“Please, Dean, _please,”_ Cas begs, but Dean isn’t done, not by a long shot, and he pulls off his angel only to crawl half over him, pulling the drawer of his bedside table open.

As he’s rummaging through it, he feels Cas, brazen, pull at the tie of his robe, the knot twisting apart and the cloth falling open.

And as soon as Cas has a hand around him, Dean’s nearly done for. Warm, strong fingers encircle his length and pump, root to tip, as Castiel pants beneath him.

Dean makes quick work of finding the tube of lubricant. As much as it pains him to do so, he encircles Cas’ wrist with his fingers, stilling the motion that’s halfway to driving him mad.

“ _Dean,”_ Cas pants.

Dean brings Cas’ hand toward his face, presses a kiss to the palm of Cas’ hand. “Not yet, baby.”

Cas’ eyes flutter shut at the term of endearment, and Dean’s glad for it; he can practically feel his face flush scarlet. Out of all that they’re doing and it’s a _pet name_ that makes him blush.

Dean smiles, scoots down the bed, and nestles himself down near the foot. He coats one finger in gel, but doesn’t get to work just yet. Again, he takes as much of Cas’ length into his mouth as he can. He lets his tongue coast over the velvety-smooth skin, revels in the earthy taste that sits in the back of his throat. He hums, and as he does so, Cas gasps and arches beneath him.

It’s then that, after tracing his finger around the rim of muscle, Dean slips a finger inside. Cas’ is warm and hot and grips him tight like iron, and Dean can’t help but groan. The sound, the feeling must travel well, because Cas sucks in a heaving breath and arches his back. The wail of Dean’s name as it leaves Cas’ mouth is sweeter than any single sound has the rights to be.

It’s not until Dean has three fingers deep inside Cas that he crooks them and makes Cas yelp. He half watches as his angel thrashes on the bed, his mouth nearly constantly open, beautiful little sounds spilling past his cupid's-bow lips. Cas has one hand wrapped around part of the headboard, the only purchase he’s been able to keep hold of for more than a moment or two.

“ _Dean,_ ” Cas cries, shaking.

Dean pulls his fingers free, huffing at the noise Cas makes when he’s empty, and shuffles up the bed. He loops Cas’ legs around his waist, slicks up his cock with the leftover lube, and presses a soft kiss to the corner of Cas’ mouth.

“This okay, angel?” he asks, presses the head of his cock to Cas’ entrance.

“ _Deeean,”_ Cas wails, tears at the corners of his eyes.

Dean kisses them away as he presses inside Castiel’s molten heat. He pauses when he bottoms out, gives both himself and his angel a moment to right their bearings, catch their breath. When Cas’ heels spur into the small of Dean’s back, Dean draws out, slowly, then pushes back in.

Cas’ blunt fingernails press into his shoulder blades, and Dean revels in the feeling, knowing that if Cas could manage it, were it even possible, he’d bring the two of them even closer still.

“I won’t let you go,” Cas pants as he’s rocked into, eyes half-closed, mind nearly lost in pleasure.

“Not goin’ anywhere, Cas,” Dean assures him, picking up his pace, pressing a kiss to Cas’ temple.

“Never gonna let you go,” Cas warns, breath hitching.

“No place I’d rather be, sweetheart.”

Cas comes like that, with a soft gasp and the call of Dean’s name.

Dean isn’t far behind - with such a beautiful sight below him, how could he do anything but follow?

Later - not much later, but after they’ve cleaned up and managed to skip over what Dean thought was going to be a seriously awkward few minutes - when they are curled back under the sheets of Dean’s bed, still naked, but sated and holding one another close, Dean smiles.

It’s a good feeling that washes over him, warm and welcome. It’s not just contentment, it’s more than that; it’s purpose. What they’ve done isn’t end of the world sex, brought on by them holding onto the last shreds of comfort they could possibly find before marching toward certain doom.

No, it’s far simpler than that, and Dean wants to kick himself for not reaching for it sooner; it’s a fresh start on solid ground.


End file.
